Baby Yogini

Today at the playground there were two girls about eight years old who were mesmerized by Genny. They sat next to us on the blacktop and smiled and waved at Gen, who was clucking and honking like a goose; she just loved all the attention.

Back at home, Genny showed off one of her new skills—putting toys into boxes as opposed to only scooping toys out and tossing them aside. She seems to be learning all these similar concepts at once: in and out, open and close and on and off. Her bedroom door gets pushed and pulled and inspected. Genny even learned how to put her baby doll in the wooden cradle and cover her with a sheet.

Now that Genny is becoming more conscious of the world and how things work, I am finding more enjoyment in playing with her. Watching her repeat an action over and over, improving in great bounds with each try is really awe-inspiring.

I have a great desire to be able to go back in time and experience this feeling for myself. Perhaps I should take up a brand new hobby, something that I have no knowledge of at all, so that I can remember what that discovery rush is like.

It’s hard to imagine what it must be like to go through an entire day with that experience of everything being new everywhere you turn. To be mesmerized by each odd person sauntering by. To be thrilled when a stranger returns your wave hello. To be astonished when by sliding your hands and feet back and forth you are able to move from one room to the next.

Genny lives so fully in each moment. No thought for the past or the future. She is a true yogini.

Sheila Who?

Making time for reading every night has helped my brain feel more active. For quite awhile there, I was barely reading any books that didn’t have pictures.

I’m reading the memoir “Slow Motion” by Dani Shapiro right now. I’m finding many parallels between her chaotic young life and my own. As I read about her affair with Lenny Klein, I am reminded of a few of my ex-boyfriends. I find my mind writhing in discomfort as I recognize my own youthful experiences of romantic relationships.

It’s releasing to close my eyes and think of Nick. We are rapidly approaching our wedding date. Never before have I felt so confident in a relationship and its ability to stand through our lives. I experience a deep sense of stillness and quiet when I contemplate our future together.

I do need to decide about my name. Will I change it to Nick’s name or hold on to my own? Or make some kind of combination? I would like to have the same last name as my husband and my daughter, but at the same time I do not want to give up my identity that I associate so closely to my own surname.

Genevieve is crying now. I am not sure whether I will nurse her or not. I think I will just try cradling her. Slowly rocking her in my arms. My back is hurting though. And I am so tired once again.

More Than Mom

It is time for me to start my own life up again. I am ready to do this. I know that it isn’t going to be easy and that I am not going to be able to be perfect in everything I do, but I am going to get started.

I do not want to be or have to be the perfect mother, teacher and writer. I am a good mother, teacher and writer. This will be enough for me. I accept that I cannot perform perfectly at all times in all roles.

I will cut myself some slack. Just because I have always felt the need to be perfect at everything I do does not mean I cannot change my mind today. Perhaps the key to my long-term depression is that deep down I am always expecting perfection of myself, but never attaining it. I will work to quiet this conflict within me.

I will still be a mom even if I work outside the home more than I do now. I am not doing anything wrong by needing more in my life besides raising Genevieve. By taking care of my own creative needs I will be modeling how to be a strong and loving woman and mother.

So, there it is. Let me be more than just a mom.

Acceptance

I tried to do too much today and it fizzled out my brain.

Genevieve ate five small meals. We took a trip into the city on the subway. I did laundry. I washed dishes and the floor surrounding Genny’s highchair five times. I went grocery shopping. I made lunch and dinner. I watched “American Idol”.

I sit back on the futon, my eyes barely fluttering open and I realize I have nothing creative to show for this exhausting day. Nick pointed out how important it is taking care of Genny. I know this; I do, but childrearing just doesn’t feel very satisfying.

There was an article on MSNBC.com the other day about how much salary moms would make if it was a paid position—it was over $100k. Seeing this doesn’t make me feel any better about my role.

I’ve got to shake out of this funk and get inspired and working again, but without burning myself out. There’s got to be a way to balance it all.

Sure, Sheila, billions of women before you have tried balancing all the roles and not succeeded, but somehow you think you’ll be able to do it?

I need to come to terms with my current life situation and accept it. Acceptance must be the key I am missing, or at least it’s a possibility.

Tomorrow, I work on acceptance. Tonight, I sleep.

Cookie Monster

When there are cookies in the cupboard I have a hard time not eating them all at once. I know they are there and it would be so easy to stroll over to them and place them in my mouth.

I found myself sneaking a cookie behind Genny’s back today. We are holding her off of sweets for as long as possible. I do feel slightly guilty eating something that I don’t want her to have. Of course, I don’t want her to drink coffee, but yet I still drink that.

And now I am thinking of the cookies again.

I am lucky enough to not have gained weight after my pregnancy. In fact, I had to dig through my old clothes to find smaller jeans because I have actually lost a bit of weight. I wonder how many cookies I would need to eat to fit in my bigger jeans.

This all seems like a bunch of hooey tonight. I feel like I’m avoiding important things. I feel too exhausted tonight to deal with real issues, hence the cookie talk.

I guess I’m feeling a bit dragged-down depressed, but I am trying very hard to ignore it and hope it goes away. I think I need a good night’s sleep and I will feel more rational in the morning.

And at least I didn’t eat all the cookies; there are still two left.

Spring

Walking home in the rain with my friend tonight, I realized that the trees budded the same week that Genny learned to crawl. Julie and I had paused outside my apartment building; I looked up at the baby green maple leaves glistening in the streetlight and noticed their startling growth.

Genevieve’s crawling skill has grown just as rapidly. She went from the smallest tentative crawls to choo-chooing down the entire hallway. I wonder if I have the patience to sit and watch a leaf grow; I wonder if I have the patience to sit and watch Genny improve her crawling technique.

I imagine when the leaves are fully-grown that Genny will be walking.

What will she be doing when the leaves' colors are fading?

And when the leaves are falling, which new skills will Genny be rising to?

If I were to link my own growth to the seasons, where would I be right now? What aspect of myself is budding right now? Perhaps my commitment to writing this blog mirrors the season. I have begun anew from where I stand. I so often hold off on starting things until the time is right, but then, of course, the time never ripens. I didn’t wait when I felt the drive this time. I allowed myself to spring forth and not hold back.

And now the summer hovers warmly just around the block.

The Hum

Genevieve visited her grandpa in New Jersey today. It’s such a joy to spend time with Genny and other family members. I am released of the entire responsibility of keeping her stimulated and enjoying her day.

Nick, Genny and I strolled along the country road picking forsythia and big, bushy pink flowers. Nick pointed out where there used to be cornfields, but now there are big, modern homes with three-car garages.

Genevieve tried pork chops and hummed the whole time. She touched prickly shells. She warmed up to Grandpa, as she always does with people she only sees once in a while, as the day wore on.

I imagine Grandparents were a more important part of raising children when families lived closer together. Moms were freed up to pursue other goals besides motherhood.

I would love to live near our families—be able to just hop in the minivan and see my mom and dad in five minutes. If we actually did live in the country though, I am sure I would miss the city: the playgrounds filled with playmates for Genny, Starbucks on every corner, a diverse population and museums.

Yes, Starbucks did get mentioned before museums, but expensive decaf coffee isn’t such a bad addiction. Now, if they’d only open a Starbucks in Jackson Heights, there would be happy mommies humming all along the streets.

Porno Model Mommy

Genevieve only had one nap today. I hope that this is not a coming trend. She was also very finicky at dinnertime. All she wanted to eat were Kix.

Her pointing is now often toward the television when she is in the living room—a disturbing turn-of-events.

It seems as though when I sit to write the first thing I think to mention is what’s going on with Genevieve. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just noticing.

Now I am sitting here reminding myself that I am more than a mom. It’s strange how the role of mom just seems to overshadow all other aspects of a woman. I can remember being a little girl and resenting that my mom worked outside the home. I wondered why being my mom wasn’t enough to fulfill her life. I also remember at other times being very proud to be able to say that my mom was an art teacher.

I suppose Genny will have these conflicting feelings about me, too. There may be a point in her life when being able to tell her friends, “My mom was a porno model!” will be a cool thing. Of course, more likely, it will be a source of embarrassment.

Which leads me to ask myself, if I had the chance to do it all over again, would I do things the same way? Would I have been a nude model if I knew I was going to have a daughter who would be upset by it one day?

The answer is, yes, I think. I know that no matter what I had done in my life, Genny would find something wrong with it at some point. There’s no use wishing to change my past now, especially since my life has given me so many interesting stories to write about today.

Rolling On

Genevieve’s life is all about crawling, waving and pointing now. And eating, of course. She’s gained tremendous crawling speed in just one week. She is now able to catch up to Luke and point at his pink nose.

My life is all about chasing Genny, drinking my decaf, soy lattes and trying to consistently write and do yoga. I’ve gained tremendous crawling speed in just one week. I am now able to catch up to Genny and yank the telephone cord from her mouth.

Life can be so simple.

I think perhaps I like complicating life—or trying to shove too many things into one day. Genny is happy working with her simple skill set, layering her skills as the days roll by.

I feel like rolling now myself. Down a green slope, under a blue sky. Scratchy grass woven through my hair. My laughter mixed with Genny’s and Nick’s voices. Closing my eyes, I feel the world spiraling inside of me. Deeper toward my center. Deeper toward my peace.

Poses

I was in bridge pose on my purple sticky mat one moment and then suddenly I found myself in a strip club. I was bent over backward in shiny heels smiling at a bald man with glasses chugging a beer.

I felt my chest expand open with light as these two very different moments of my life converged—dark, dirty bar filled with drunk men and sunny living room occupied by my daughter and I practicing yoga.

I’ve had these stripper flashbacks in yoga poses before. My hatha yoga practice has taken me deeper into finding meaning in these odd experiences. Asanas closely resemble many of the poses I struck as an adult entertainer and model. Could it be that even then, before I was on a spiritual path, that my self was trying to point me in the right direction? And perhaps at the time I was not yet ready to receive the message and start the journey?

My revelations regarding physical poses help me heal today. When my body takes a familiar pose that pulls up past memories, I allow the memories to surface. I practice being non-judgmental of the woman I was then and refocus on the present and the fact that the pose is just for me now. I am no longer performing for others. I now refocus on correct alignment, a quiet mind and strength, rather than how my pose looks to others and how much money it can make me.

Yoga asanas are doorways to my past, but from a centered self who knows where she wants to be today. I am able to make different choices about how I use my body and how my spirit expresses itself through that body.

I hope that Genevieve will learn a love for and respect for her body not easily achieved by most women today.

Swinging

I push Genny on the baby swing at the park. My hands push her thighs as she arcs toward me and I can remember the pat of hands on my own thighs. The reassuring light clap and push against my skinny girl legs. I feel the breeze in my face and taste my flying warm hair in my mouth.

I tickle Genny as she comes to me. We laugh as she flies away. She points at the other kids, I think, or perhaps she’s pointing at something I don’t even see. She kicks her legs and waves her pink-shoed feet.

By the time we head home from the park, Gen’s blue pants are dirty at the knees from crawling practice. This is the first time that she’s ever had dirty knees. I suppose this is one of those baby milestones to remember.

Since she learned how to crawl last week, Genevieve is becoming clingier. She never used to like to just sit in my lap and relax, but now she eagerly crawls into my lap and even rests her head on my shoulder. I think this is what Dr. Sears (or some other Dr. writer person) wrote is separation anxiety. Gen’s body is growing more independent, but her mind still needs to check back in with mom.

I like it when she comes to me on her own. It makes me feel wanted and needed and loved.

I am starting to think that this is the easy part. A baby loves you no matter what. As she grows older, I will have to prepare Genny for being a female in this society. How will I prepare her for the stress of being a woman? How will I explain the choices that I have made? Will she follow in my footsteps?

How funny that I can go from swinging babies and happy memories to wondering if my daughter will one day want to be a stripper. Stop, breathe and laugh, Sheila. Stay in this moment. Enjoy the swinging while it lasts.

My Mom

My mom has stage-four breast cancer. She has been sick for a long time. I doubt if even Mom knows how many chemo treatments she has received and will need to keep receiving.

She has just started yet another new chemo. This one will probably make her lose her hair again.

Genevieve and I visited her in Connecticut today.

Genny crawls to my lap in the warm sun and rests her head on my thigh. Her untrimmed fingernails are lined with dirt. We don’t have much grass for digging through in Jackson Heights. This is a special treat.

I want to crawl to my mom. I want to bury my eyes against her shirt. Bury my skin against her freckled face. Close my eyes, open them and find us back at our house in Trumbull. Mom’s brown curls bobbing against her bare shoulders. We could be raking leaves or running down the driveway to get the mail or hanging wet clothes on the clothesline in the backyard.

I want to take away her illness. I want to cast it out of her. She is my mother and I need her as much as Genevieve needs me.

Having my own daughter has allowed me to understand the incredible love my mother has for me. And, of course, I think of all the hand wringing and teeth gnashing I have caused her over the years.

I understand now why she didn’t want me to become a stripper. I understand now why she made me brush my teeth. I understand now why she slept next to my bed on my bedroom’s bumpy gold carpet when I was sick.

And I understand why I always felt better in the morning.

Mommy, The Entertainer

Genevieve’s latest skill is pointing, which I’m quite enjoying. Her finger smells like cinnamon from the Zwieback toast. I kiss her sticky little pointer like it’s a ripe, juicy berry hanging from a branch.

She points at her pile of toys on the table. I pull out an orange fish puppet and offer it to her. She takes it and tosses it to the floor. I offer her a life size Minnie Mouse and she pushes it away. This game continues until the table is bare.

This has just been pointing practice.

Genevieve practices and I observe. This is not a new role for me—observer. I have always enjoyed watching people, quietly making note of details that make people unique. Perhaps if I try to focus in on my role as observer of Genny I will be able to enjoy our time together more.

Observer, not entertainer.

I am so used to being the entertainer, whether I was stripping on stage or acting on tour. Eyes grazed my body and face, feeding off of what I offered. And I always felt like I needed to present more. I required of myself perfection.

Maybe I sometimes think that Genny is expecting the same perfected entertainment from me. She is just a baby; I’m the one putting pressure on myself to be the perfect performing mommy.

I need to practice stepping back. I need to remember that it’s not the end of the world if Genny cries a little bit. I do not have to rush to entertain her into happiness. How I have always hated it when people tell me to smile when I am crying.

I can let Genevieve feel upset. I can handle it. Or I can at least practice handling it until my own table is laid bare.

Hot Chili

Genny just went to bed. I walk out of her room, shut the door behind me and feel a sense of relief. Hopefully, she will sleep all night, but most likely she’ll wake up around Midnight or so.

My depression is feeling very heavy tonight, like a dirty trench coat on a crippled old man. There is no obvious reason for my depression at the moment. None that I can think of at least. And I feel very cold, although it isn’t that cold outside.

I think the higher dosage of my antidepressant is making me feel cloudy headed. Tired, like fuzzy curtains drawn across my brain. I wish I could tug on the cord and pull the cloth aside. Open the shades and reveal a clearer space.

Sometimes I think I am not cut out for this mothering gig. I want to be more enthusiastic about playing with Genevieve. I want to be more creative in teaching her about life. I want to feel sad when it is time to put her down for bed.

I know that I am just in a low mood and that it will pass. I love Genevieve. Nick is opening photos of her from some emails. She was so tiny and had so little hair.

I’m going to cook dinner now. I feel a certain sense of serenity when I cook, even if I’m just heating up my vegetarian chili. The results of my efforts will be immediate—hot food to quench my growling belly. I will not have to wait years to see how my chili’s going to turn out.

Rubber Ducky

I was just saying to Nick last night that ducks have become central figures in my life as of late. For some reason, ducks are associated with babies.

Genny’s Graco swing is blue with yellow ducks, as was her favorite (okay, my favorite) pair of flannel jammies that no longer fit. There’s The Fuzzy Duckling book in the regular version and in the appended and waterproofed bath copy. There are the three sizes of rubber ducky tub toys. There are all the ducks in the Baby Einstein videos. And of course, there are all the little yellow duckies that waddle their fuzzy little butts through my dreams at night.

And what’s with the adding of “ie”-sound to the end of so many nouns? Why must I say yellow duckies? Or cute doggy? Or worst of all—poopy and poopsies? That “ie”-sound certainly does not make the offending subject any sweeter.

Words must rhyme, too. It’s cutie patootie. It’s jelly belly. It’s lunch munch. I accidentally called Genevieve Missy Pissy this morning. You never know what rhyme is going to pop out of your mouth, which can be dangerous with so many ducks lying about the house.

Nick and I even call each other Mom and Dad when Genny’s not around. We use cute sing-songy voices when they aren’t called for at all. I graduated valedictorian from my college for Goodness sakes. What has happened to me? Where has my brain gone? And will it show back up again when it’s time for me to start graduate school in the fall, or will I be introducing myself as Sheilie Wheelie?

Stroller Posse

Today was a working day for me. I dropped Genny off at her babysitter’s and then headed to the city to teach yoga. After work, it was on to the Jackson Heights Parents Group where Genevieve gets to mix and mingle with the toddler-set and I get to speak with other adults.

Walking back home afterwards, we had a bit of a stroller posse going. The four mommies pushing their lazing babes along 34th Avenue. We formed a gang and slid along the silent streets. Margot suggested tagging our name “JHPG” along everything our stroller wheels touched. All we needed were some stencils and some bright primary spray paints. We could envision ourselves visiting other neighborhoods, leaving our childish splashes for all babies and mommies to see.

Watch out—here come the mommies. Make way for baby. Push, push, stroll, stroll. Get out of our way.

And then it hits me, like a flung Kix from Genny’s little fist—I am now one of those women. You know whom I mean. Those women who get in your way on the city streets by pushing their strollers slowly past every Baby Gap and Children’s Place store. Those women who can’t shuffle their strollers up the subway stairs fast enough for you to make your train. Those women whom you imagine have it so good—sipping Starbucks as they loll around the park with plenty of free time to run errands and have manicure and pedicures.

Actually, I’m speaking about my own mommy pet peeves. The few times I manage to drag myself to the city I find myself silently cursing the Big City moms pushing their $750 Bugaboo strollers. I can’t call them out on the Starbucks though because I must admit I do have a bit of an affectionate spot in my heart for a certain Mr. Frappucino. And I did splurge a week ago and have a manicure and pedicure, but I only do it a few times a year. And I even felt guilty the entire time instead of just relaxing and allowing myself to enjoy the experience. That wasn’t very yogic of me at all.

Not Such a Bad Mom

I often place Genny in the hallway where I can see her while I use the bathroom. This morning I did just that. What was unusual was that she crawled toward me. Gen has been struggling with pre-crawling for months. And now, today, on her 11-month birthday, she crawled.

I was strolling her to the park when it actually hit me…I’m not such a bad mom after all. She must have done her first crawl yesterday morning when she lunged off the bed. That’s why the accident happened.

As I walked through the neighborhood today I was greeted by a few moms I know who all had baby falling out of bed stories to share. I now know that I’m not the first mom to have watched in horror as her child fell just far enough out of her reach to save.

Genny seemed to be feeling fine today. And, so, yes—the crawling. She crawled across the living room. She crawled across the kitchen. She tried to eat cat food.

It’s amazing how she grows in such leaps and bounds. It seemed like she was stuck in the same in-between crawling stage for at least three months and then for her to all of a sudden just crawl, without any more “baby steps”, is bizarre. But then I guess that’s how mastering skills works, even for adults—we practice forever and seem to be getting nowhere and then all of a sudden, we’re suave experts.

Perhaps this is true for motherhood, too. But if it is, I don’t know where I am in the learning process. It’s almost like I begin each day brand new, helpless and unable to move and then as the day unwinds I find myself figuring out when to put Genny down for her naps, what and how much to feed her and how to keep her occupied. Then by the time that it’s her bedtime I have achieved mastery, for the day.

I’m an expert mom, tonight. I do find joy in that, but it also makes me aware that perhaps I’m not becoming expert at anything else. I have no time for myself—for my writing.

I’m writing now. This blog keeps me writing, if just this little bit every day. I’m finally oiling myself up again. Let this little bit of writing, this little bit of “me” time sustain me through motherhood.

Head Trauma

Just for the record, head trauma is not the description a mother wants to hear about her child.

I had been planning to take Genny to the park and then have lunch with a friend and her baby. I placed Genny on the middle of the bed and turned around, flipped my hair over and brushed it up into a ponytail. As I turned back around to the bed, Genny was just diving off.

She landed flat on her face and began to scream and cry. I tried to nurse her, but her eyes started closing and her body went limp. Shoving the stroller along the bumpy sidewalks of Jackson Heights on the way to Elmhurst Hospital—Genny threw up.

After standing and sweating at a registration desk for fifteen minutes, I almost passed out. Meanwhile, Genevieve was just burrowing her head against my shoulder, not normal behavior for her at all. The doctors decided to do a CAT scan just to make sure everything was okay.

She looked so tiny all wrapped up in the white sheet, cocooned against the metal tube of the CAT scan machine. We had to step out of the room while they zapped her. I leaned against the long hallway’s wall holding Nick’s hand. Being in the hospital brought up too many bad memories of our past year together—Nick’s mom passed away the same week Genny was born and a cousin of Nick’s lost her baby in a drowning.

Biting its way through my brain was the thought that Nick must think I’m a bad mom. I kept seeing Genny falling over and over again in my head. If only I hadn’t turned my back on her. If only I had realized she would one day learn to crawl all of a sudden and maybe take me by surprise.

While we waited for Genny to wake up from the sedation, the results came back—everything looked fine.

What if everything hadn’t been fine? What if Genevieve had been seriously brain damaged? How would I have forgiven myself?

Nick said he doesn’t blame me. And I know he means that. And I know that accidents happen, but I felt like they would never happen to my baby when I was around. I can hold guilt against myself for what happened or I can learn from my mistake and not let it happen again. With a baby though, there is no way to totally protect her from the world. Genny is going to fall again whether I’m around or not.

She’s sleeping peacefully now, albeit with a rug burn tattooed across her forehead. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a calmer day.

Good Morning

Genevieve is screeching in the other room. My annoying cat, Luke, whom Nick likes to call Lucifer, is crawling over my lap, the computer and the desk. It feels like an insanely unfunny comedy where all the evils of my brain have marched out of my ear and bit me on my ass.

And believe it or not, there’s a moment of silence. I don’t know how long it will last, or if chewing on that computer cord will electrocute Luke. I need to remind myself again that this, too, shall pass. I will get a full night’s sleep. Genny will nap on schedule. Luke will cough up that poisonous spider plant offshoot he just munched down.

It’s another new day of taking care of my baby. Another new day of riding out this feeling of depressed sleepiness that is making my eyeballs feel sticky as hot tar.

Feeling the Buzz

Today I’m feeling that buzzing, boiling urge to be doing something more with my life. I’m feeling like I should be more motivated, but I’m having a hard time just enjoying the day to begin with. I find myself counting down the hours until Genny’s naps and daydreaming about her bedtime.

I want to be able to enjoy this part of my life. I don’t want to be constantly wishing I had more freedom until finally I get it and then realize what a lucky thing I had now.

I want to pretend that it’s the future and my busy, creative and fulfilling life has driven me to rent a time machine to transport myself back to the present where I can just enjoy my alone and home time with my daughter. Can I do that? Can I convince myself that this time is a gift without the benefit of the future?